After Red John
by Vinividivinci
Summary: A multi-chapter tag to Red John. How does Patrick get to his island - and what is going through his mind after killing Red John? My take on the time in between Red John and Blue Bird.
1. Chapter 1

At first he didn't know where he was going. All he knew was that he had to move, to run.

It wasn't fear that was making him move so quickly – nor was it regret for what he'd just done. He'd had years to think about it and to plan and now it was finished. He had accomplished what he had set out to do so may years ago. In the moments after he had done it, he hadn't felt anything, other than a small spark of _something_ – a something that had kept him from pulling the trigger, that had made him call Teresa, that was making him run away now.

It was only as he ran away from the park, from the cemetery that he realized what the spark was. It was the will to live.

He was beginning to gasp, to have trouble getting enough air in his lungs. But he knew that if he was to get away, if he wasn't going to spend the rest of his life in prison, he had to keep running.

He allowed his mind to move away from the present – away from the burning in his lungs and in his legs. Instead he concentrated on that spark – the one that had surprised him when it appeared.

He had long expected to die in the pursuit of vengeance; his only hope being that first he would kill his nemesis. And for a long time, he had _hoped_ for death, had longed for it. The only thing that had kept him from it, had been his quest for justice – and for vengeance. His sole purpose in life was to kill the man who had killed Angela and Charlotte. Once he had done that, he had wanted his life to end – to join the ones he loved in that sleep of death.

When that desire to die had begun to change he had no idea. It had been gradual. Suddenly – even as he gasped for breath and ran for his life - he smiled, realizing it wasn't a _when_ but rather a _who_ that had changed him from a man bent on death – to one who now wanted to live.

But he couldn't think about her – not now. Now he had to concentrate on getting away, on _not_ spending his life behind bars. Because now that spark had flared brightly and he chose to live, to go on – and he knew that prison would now be another form of death.

He slowed and then stopped. He had reached his limit and could run no more. He bent over, his hands resting on his knees and his head hanging down. He stood like that for a long time – at least until he could breathe without feeling as if he were breathing shards of glass. He was still panting – and he was covered in sweat – but finally his heart slowed.

He slowly stood straight and looked to see what was around him, where he had ended up after his marathon run. He frowned for a few seconds, realizing that he was in an alley surrounded by a series of old, run down buildings. It was dark – the sun barely made it's way between the structures that had all seen better days. He coughed, finally paying attention to the atmosphere that surrounded him now that breathing was no longer an agony. He grimaced at the smell of urine and decay and garbage – and his stomach clenched.

The only other being in the alley with him was a lone rat – his small, piercing black eyes regarded Jane carefully – as if wondering who would dare invade his territory.

"It's all yours," Jane said breathlessly, pushing himself to straighten and to move as quickly to the street as his shaking limbs would let him. He had to figure out where he was and then get out of the city as quickly as possible. The FBI and the police would be looking for him and pretty soon his face would be everywhere.

He made it to the end of the street, already feeling stiff and sore from the grueling course taken to arrive where he was now. His hands ached as well – but he refused to think about why that was. Right now he was focused on escape – there would be time later to dwell on the _why_ escape was necessary and on the end of his ten year quest.

He glanced to the right and left and realized he'd ended up in a poor part of town – an area teaming with the lost, the injured, the sick and the rejected. He saw people sitting, standing and lying down on the sidewalk. He saw the tents, the piles of belongings, the shopping carts – and knew he'd come to the right place to disappear.

He went to step forward out to the street, but then stopped. He would stand out immediately, if he walked out in a suit. With some regret he peeled off his jacket and tossed it back into the alley. Hopefully some lucky homeless man would find it and be able to use it.

There was nothing else he could do so he walked into the street, better dressed than most even in his shirt and pants. At least he was sweaty and disheveled after his run, allowing him to fit in more with the people around him. He started to walk down the street, thinking about where he needed to go next, when he suddenly spied a police officer walking towards him.

Jane slowed and stopped and then casually turned and crossed the street. He could feel his nerves twitch, expecting any second to be recognized, to have the cop call out to him to stop. But after a few minutes, when nothing happened, he chanced to look back, to see the police officer already a full block away, his back to Patrick.

He let out a deep sigh of relief and kept walking. He needed to change his appearance, and quickly.

After wandering for a few blocks he eventually came upon a small store filled with a variety of things – everything from a bust of Elvis, to blankets and children's clothing. He quickly stepped in and began to hunt in the piles of clothes for a few things to help in his escape.

It didn't take long for him to get everything that he needed. He waited until there were other people at the cash register before making his way to the front of the store. If at all possible he hoped that the store clerk wouldn't remember him – or his purchases.

A few moments later he was back in another alley – which looked almost the same, and which smelled exactly the same as the first. With a careful look around – this time there wasn't even a rat occupying the space – he changed.

The first thing he did was pull down the cap over his head. He knew that his blond, curly hair would be easily identifiable and the first thing the cops would be looking for. He'd also purchased some hair die, but he'd have to find a place to use it. In the meantime, covering his hair was all he could do.

Next he stripped his shirt and replaced it with a T-Shirt – with a picture of Bob Marley on the front. His pants went next and he pulled on a pair of stone-washed jeans, their faded appearance hiding the fact that they were new. He stuck a pair of sunglasses on his face and the final touch was his shoes. It gave him a pang to remove his brown loafers – but they too were easily identifiable so he replaced them with a pair of black Converse knock-offs.

He transferred his own clothes to the shopping bag he'd been given and, with one final look down the alley, he made his way back to the street.

This time he felt less conspicuous and realized that no one was paying him any attention. He felt himself relax slightly, although he had to keep vigilant. He knew that growing careless could cost him his freedom.

He had to walk a few blocks before he was finally able to hail a cab. It seemed as if taxis avoided this area. They probably figured there weren't too many who needed their services, either into or out of the area.

He got into the cab and sighed. It felt good to sit, even if the cab smelled like stale cigarette smoke and unwashed bodies. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

"Hey, where ya wanna go?" the cabby asked, glancing in the mirror at his passenger.

"Santa Monica please," he said softly, then giving the cabbie the actual address.

"That'll cost ya," the guy said suspiciously. "You got enough money?"

Jane reached into his wallet and pulled out five twenty-dollar bills. "Will this be enough?" he asked.

"Yeah, that's enough." The driver pulled out into the road and began to head towards Santa Monica.

Jane dozed as they drove. The traffic was picking up for end of the day rush hour and he knew it would be a longer than usual drive to get to their destination. He knew the cops would immediately go to Malibu and was sure they would be waiting at his house. He also suspected they would be on the lookout in the town – but they wouldn't have any idea of where he was actually going and they would have no notion that he'd go to Santa Monica, the next town over. It should only be dangerous if they put up road-blocks around the area. He was hopeful that they wouldn't.

"This the place?" The cabby's voice woke him from his doze and he sucked in a noisy breath and sat forward, worried that he'd been so out of it as to have missed the entire journey.

"What?"

"This the place," the cabby asked, slowing down and pointing with his chin to a small, white house at the side of the road. The street they were on was filled with other small houses, but they were set back from the road and quite distant from one another. It looked like an older neighborhood and from the state of some of the houses, it had probably been inhabited by the same people for a very long time.

Even though the houses were small, Jane knew that they were worth a fortune, just by the fact of being in this area. He'd seen a couple of new houses and suspected that developers were beginning to buy people out and sell to new, young and wealthy buyers.

"Yes, thank you," he said, handing over the money to the cabby. He quickly got out and then waited for the cab to leave. As soon as it was gone, Jane turned in the opposite direction, past the white house, and kept on walking.

He was smart enough not to let the cabbie know exactly where he was going – just in case the man recognized a picture of him. So, he kept walking – his destination a few blocks away.

By the time he turned down the street he was looking for, it was growing dark. Fortunately he knew the house and walked to it quickly. He was tired and hungry and thirsty and wanted nothing more than to rest.

He could see lights on in the quaint, craftsman style house, and breathed a sigh of relief. With a final glance around, to make sure no one was paying him any attention, he walked up the front sidewalk and rang the doorbell.

A few seconds later he heard footsteps, and then the door was opened. An older, dark-haired woman stood there and for a moment she didn't move. A second later she uttered a phrase in Spanish and crossed herself.

"Is it done?" she finally asked, her voice infused with a soft Spanish accent.

He nodded. "It's done."

"Gracias a dios," she crossed herself again and then held out her arms. "Mi pobre!" she exclaimed. "Come in."

"Are you sure Maria?" he asked. Before he had time to blink the woman exclaimed once more in Spanish, grabbed his hand and pulled him forward. The door closed softly behind him and he found himself enveloped in the warm, comforting arms of his former housekeeper.

"You are safe Patrick," she said gently. "You are safe."

He suddenly began to shake – the stress of the last few hours – days – finally catching up to him. He tried to pull away, worried that he would knock Maria over, but she shushed him and held on tight. Eventually she drew him to the small living room and got him to sit, although she still stayed with him.

He was shaking so badly his teeth were chattering, and he could feel something wet on his face. He was surprised and tried to wipe away the wetness, only then acknowledging that he was crying. He didn't know _why_ he was crying, or even what he was crying about – but that didn't seem to matter. His body was telling him that he had reached his limit.

Maria pulled him forward and he curled up to her, almost as if he were a child. He continued to shake – unable to say a coherent word.

He had no idea how long they stayed there, but eventually he began to calm down. Now, however, he felt so tired his eyes began to close. It was only then that Maria sat up and spoke.

"No, you mustn't fall asleep here Patrick," she told him. "Come, I will put you to bed and you must rest."

He went to say something and she shook her head. "No – no talking. You are tired. I will fix you a small bite to eat and something to drink and then you will sleep. There is time enough to tell me tomorrow."

"I don't want to get you into trouble," he said, although he realized that it was a little late to be thinking of that.

"Don't be silly," she told him. "Now come on – to bed with you."

Jane let himself be guided to the small guest room. Maria made him sit on the bed and then went and got him a clean tee-shirt and some sweat pants. He figured they must belong to one of her sons – her husband had died many years before.

"You get dressed and into bed," she instructed. "I am going to go and make you something to eat. I've left your bag on the dresser," she indicated the bag of clothes he must have dropped when she let him in.

He sat, without moving, for a few minutes. He couldn't concentrate on anything and was even finding it hard to comprehend what was going on. Finally he sat up and took a breath and slowly began to take off his shirt.

It took him longer than normal to undress, but finally he was finished. He glanced around the room and only then noticed all the pictures of Maria's children and grandchildren.

And … Charlotte and Angela! His breathing stopped and he grabbed the side of the bed, feeling sick and dizzy. Of course she would have their pictures – but he wished they had been anywhere but here. He couldn't take looking at them – he hadn't seen a picture of them in years and hadn't expected to see them now.

"What was I thinking?" Maria's voice startled him and he opened his eyes, to see her taking down the pictures. "I am so sorry Patrick – I did not expect you."

"That's – okay," he gasped, trying to breath properly. He watched as she left the room, the pictures clutched in her arms. He knew it was crazy – that he shouldn't have let it bother him – but seeing them again, especially now, was more than he could take.

Maria returned, this time with a tray of food. "In bed," she instructed him. She waited until he sat back and put the tray on his lap. "Eat and then sleep. Things will be better in the morning."

He laughed – although it was full of bitterness. "Maria, don't you understand? I ki -"

"I know," she leaned over and covered his mouth with her hand. "He is gone and they are at rest Patrick – and now it is your time to rest. Eat, sleep and tomorrow will take care of itself."

He nodded and finally picked up the spoon and had some soup, but couldn't finish most of it. He did drink the juice Maria had brought – still thirsty from his crazy run earlier in the day. He got up and used the bathroom and then finally crawled into bed. He was so tired he didn't even bother to turn out the light.

A few minutes later – he was almost asleep – the room grew dark. He was almost sure, in the last few moments of awareness, that he felt a hand stroke his head and a soft voice speak.

"You are safe, you are loved, you are wise."

When he awoke the next morning it took him a few seconds to remember where he was. When he looked around – and saw the pictures of Maria's family – it all came back to him. Suddenly he was transported back ten years.

Maria Medina had been their housekeeper. Angela had hired her to help clean the house and to sometimes babysit Charlotte when the two of them wanted to go out. She had soon become almost a member of the family and both Charlotte and Angela adored her.

Jane had liked her too, although he didn't know her as well. His business was booming and so he didn't see her very often. They were always friendly, and he appreciated that Angela had another adult to talk to when he wasn't around, but he didn't spend much time with her.

It wasn't until after – that he discovered what a truly good person Maria was.

For the first few weeks after the deaths of his wife and child he'd barely known what was going on. He had been numb – getting through each day but not really aware of anything. It was as if he was in some kind of strange fog in which he was existing rather than living. It was only after the funerals, after all the well-wishers and police and neighbors were gone, that things began to become real. It was then that Maria stepped up.

She was the only person that stayed with him after those first few weeks. All his friends – or acquaintances really – had left to go back to their lives. The only ones who had truly been concerned had been Sam and Pete – but he had insisted they go home and resume their lives. He'd promised them he would be fine. He was pretty sure they hadn't believed him, but they couldn't do anything but go.

His father had shown up a couple of weeks after the funerals, pretending to be concerned – but Patrick knew him well enough to know he was just circling around in case there was money to be had. He'd told Alex to get out – and to never come back. He hadn't seen his father since that day. In fact, he didn't even know if the man was still alive.

But Maria had shown up – and continued to show up day after day. He had told her to leave, had begged her to leave him – but still she came back.

She cooked meals for him – few of which he actually ate – washed his clothes and continued to tidy his house. She tried to talk to him, tried to get him to get help – but he had ignored her. Still she came, even though he was pretty sure he hadn't paid her for a long, long time.

She kept it up for months until finally, one day, he'd turned on her. He yelled at her, threatened her, and finally pushed her out of the house and slammed the door after her. He had then gone around the house and smashed everything in sight.

He spent the next few days trying to drink himself to oblivion and had ultimately woken up in a puddle of vomit. As he pushed himself, unsteadily, to his feet, he also discovered that he'd wet himself. Filled with self-loathing and disgust, he'd made his way to the bathroom to clean up.

For the next few days he remained stone, cold sober. He arranged to have men come and haul away truckloads of stuff. Some of the better furniture he'd had taken to the guest-house and covered with dust-covers. Once the house was empty – empty save for a few left-over toys and a mattress under the smiley-face – he knew he was almost ready.

He arranged his business affairs and wrote letters to anyone who would worry about him – telling them that he was going away on a trip. Once all of that was done – he prepared to die.

He walked up the flight of stairs, each step reminding him again of that fateful night, until he came to that same door. He took a deep breath and opened it. The mattress lay there in the room where they had died. He walked to it and lay down. He would end his life in the same room in which his daughter and wife had died.

He had thought, during the previous days, of the many ways in which he could kill himself. He had considered whether to use a gun or poison. He had thought about hanging himself or even about jumping. The problem was, all of them were too quick and he knew he didn't deserve to die quickly. If he had been more courageous he would have attempted to use a knife – to die painfully as had Angela and Charlotte. But he knew he wouldn't have been able to complete the task.

So, in the end he decided that he would die slowly – and punish himself by looking at that face for all the days it took to die and remember that Angela and Charlotte's deaths were his fault.

And he would have died there – died of starvation – except for Maria. He didn't know how long he'd lain there, not eating and only drinking enough to keep from going mad from thirst, when Maria burst into the room.

He vaguely remembered her sobbing and speaking in Spanish – although the memory was hazy. He did remember flashes of others coming in the room, of being taken away, of the bright light when they left the house and the sound of a siren.

His next memory was waking up in a padded room, Sophie Miller sitting across from him and asking him if he knew who he was.

The next six months were spent trying to put himself back together. For a long time they kept him drugged and under suicide watch. And it was true – all he really thought about, when he could think clearly, was how he was going to kill himself as soon as they weren't watching.

Ultimately though, Dr. Miller _did_ save him. It wasn't by making him get over the deaths – or the guilt – but by helping him focus on another goal. Rather than death, he now spent all his days thinking about murder.

Murder, vengeance – killing the man who had killed his wife and daughter – was now his one and only goal in life. Once that was done, well _then_ he could return to the thought of killing himself. And this time he would do it quickly, so no one could stop him.

After he got out of the hospital he was well enough to know that he owed his life to Maria Medina. Now grateful to her for saving him – not because he was happy to be alive, but so that he could start his quest – he knew he had to do something to thank her.

He took some of his money, the money he had made conning people, and bought her a little house in Santa Monica. She was grateful, but he quickly realized she was happier about the fact that he now wanted to live, than that he'd bought her a house.

He had almost let her believe that he was better, that he was moving on. But in the end he decided he owed her the truth. She had sacrificed for him, had saved his life. The least he could do was tell her what he planned to do.

She had been dismayed, but not shocked. In the end she had put her hand on his arm and made him promise one thing. "When it is done," she told him, "you must come to me."

And he'd promised and he had kept that promise.

Over the years he had let her know he was okay, had told her about the CBI – and a little about the team. But he hadn't really spent time visiting her – seeing her was too difficult a reminder of his previous life.

But one thing he had done – a few years into his quest and when the desire to die had faded - was ask her to hold some things for him – some things he thought he might need if he ever accomplished his goal of killing Red John.

So now he was here – here in response to a promise made years ago – but also to get the things he needed to start a new life.

He pulled back the covers and put his feet over the side of the bed. It was time to move forward. He no longer planned to die – but he wasn't sure yet, how to live.

He had done what he had set out to do ten years ago. Red John was dead. It was time for Patrick Jane to figure out what was next.


	2. So long, Farewell,Aufweidersehen,Goodbye

_**Sorry folks for taking so long to post - my life is crazy anymore and my writing time seriously curtailed. Thanks so much for those of you who are reviewing. It's the only reason I keep going!**_

 _ **A long chapter - and definitely filler...**_

"Here," Maria handed over a large manila envelope, wrapped in packing tape. "I have looked after it for you."

"Thank you," he gave her a gentle smile when he saw what she had in her hand. He'd slept well the night before and it was already late in the morning. He'd been surprised, when he'd woken up, to see that he'd slept through the night. He had expected to have nightmares after all that had happened over the last few weeks. Instead he'd slept deeply and soundly.

He'd padded his way to the kitchen after getting up, to find Maria standing at the stove. She turned and gave him a penetrating look, a look that said she wouldn't accept anything but the truth from him. After appearing satisfied with what she saw, she had told him to sit. She then proceeded to make him a huge breakfast of eggs, toast and bacon and a hot cup of tea.

Surprisingly, after holding on tightly to his emotions, it was the breakfast that almost caused him to break. For some reason – maybe it was Maria herself – it brought back memories of Angela and their life together. He'd had to stop in the middle of a bite and try and get a hold of himself. He was afraid he was going to break down right there in his former housekeeper's kitchen. And if there was anything he hated, anything he avoided at all cost, it was to show any kind of vulnerability.

Maria had given him another sharp look and then had turned and left the kitchen. He was grateful. She knew him well, and she must have sensed that he needed a few moments alone and that now wasn't the time to talk to him about what had happened. He still hadn't processed everything – he was pretty sure that was going to take longer than a few days – but the reality of it _was_ starting to catch up to him.

He had killed Red John. It had taken almost ten years – nine if he didn't count that first year spent in the depths of grief and then in a mental hospital. Nine years of hunting, of obsessing, of giving up everything to focus on finding the man who had destroyed his family. It had taken almost everything he had, but in the end, he had been victorious.

He looked down at his hands – the hands that were still sore – and saw them for the weapons they'd become. He'd killed a man with his bare hands. He closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath. He'd actually done it.

He slowly breathed out and tried to clear his mind. He couldn't allow himself to think about, at least not now. Now he had to get away, to flee the country so that he could remain free. Only then could he really think about what he had done.

It was at that moment that Maria had returned with an envelope in her hands. The envelope he had given her so many years ago.

It had been after his first time in prison – after the death of Timothy Carter – that he realized he needed to have an escape plan. When he'd killed Carter – who at the time he had thought was Red John, he hadn't cared about escape. He had only cared about exacting revenge. What came after hadn't mattered. But after going through the trial, and more importantly, after starting to care about living again, he had decided that _next_ time, when he really did kill Red John, he wasn't going to go to prison.

The first thing he had to do was find people who could help him escape. He wasn't going to ask his team – it would put them in an impossible situation. Instead, he'd turn to those who were part of the underbelly of the city, the ones who made a living helping anyone who needed to escape from the Law. He met the right kind of people at work and had known a number even before joining the CBI – individuals who could help you do just about anything, for the right price. He checked out various people, and made a list with contacts. Besides that he also knew that he had to have some things ready. He had carefully and methodically collected everything he thought he would need.

The one problem he'd encountered – the only on in fact, had been where to put the items he collected. He couldn't leave them in any place he was known to frequent as the police would find it – and him - and leaving it in a safety deposit box was our for much the same reason.

So, in the end he'd decided to ask Maria to hold the things for him. He hadn't told anyone about her and there was no record of her in any of his files. That was one benefit of having had access to the Red John files for so many years. He'd been able to remove any mention of her.

A couple of times he'd come close to telling Lisbon about her, but in the end decided it was safer for everyone if he didn't. This way neither Teresa, nor any of his team, would be forced to tell someone about her- or lie.

So for the past few years Maria had held on to the package that would hopefully help him reach safety.

He reached over and took the package, staring at it for a few moments. He still had trouble believing that he'd finally gotten to this point.

"Take it Patrick," Maria said. "Go to your room and look at what is in there. I hope it brings you peace."

He grimaced slightly. Peace wasn't what he was after – escape was! He stood and, after thanking her for breakfast, made his way to his bedroom. Once there he sat on the bed and slowly began to rip open the envelope.

He dumped its connects on the bed and looked at them, one by one. There was a passport – made out in the name of David Sinclair. It showed a picture of him with dark hair – he remembered having had a terrible time getting the die out of his hair. He'd had to pretend to stay out because of a cold, so his team wouldn't question him.

Along with the passport was a driver's license and two credit cards, all with the same name. There was a small notebook with a list of telephone numbers – the numbers for the contacts who would hopefully help him get away, a pair of thick black glasses and a cheap burner phone. Finally, and most importantly, there was a large wad of cash – mostly in tens and twenties.

He felt slightly relieved that everything was there, although he wasn't surprised. If there was anyone he knew he could trust (after Teresa and his team) it was Maria. Maybe there was a chance for him after all.

That afternoon he dyed his hair dark brown. Afterward he looked at himself and grimaced. Over the last few years he'd aged – his quest adding more and deeper lines on his face. Now, with the dark hair and pale skin – overly pale from worry exhaustion – he looked ill.

The next things to go, after the color, were the curls. Borrowing a pair of scissors from Maria, he ruthlessly hacked away at his hair until it was so short that not a curl was in sight. He wondered briefly what Lisbon would say, and then had to bite back a laugh when he imagined her reaction. He was pretty sure she would hate it.

He picked up the glasses and put them on. The glass was clear – but to anyone else it would look like he was extremely nearsighted.

"Madre de dios!" Maria exclaimed when he walked into the living room. "What have you done to yourself?"

He chuckled. "You think anyone will recognize me?"

"You have lost your beautiful curls!" she told him, not answering his question.

He rolled his eyes, not sure what to say. He always found it embarrassing when people, women especially, commented on his hair. He was grateful that Teresa had never said anything about it.

"I guess you have no choice," his former housekeeper said sadly. "Now no one will recognize you – although it is so sad to see you lose your curls!"

"They'll grow back," he assured her. "But this way hopefully no one will recognize me and I'll have a chance of getting away." He paused briefly and then looked at Maria seriously. "Maria, it's not fair of me to ask -"

"Stop!" she interrupted him. "Of course you will stay here – you will stay until it is safe for you to go. And I don't want to hear another word."

He had to bite his lip to keep from breaking down. He hated that his emotions were so close to the surface. He managed to stop himself, but he did move forward and put his arms around her and give her a hug. "Thank you," he said softly.

"No need to thank me, dear boy," she said gently, patting his back. "I could do nothing less for you. I loved your dear wife and daughter like my own – and you are like my own son. You just rest and when it is time to go, you will know."

He ended up staying at Maria's for almost two weeks. He found it difficult. Sitting around with little or nothing to do – and not having any idea of what was going on with Teresa and his team – he began to fret. His insomnia came back and he was nervous and stressed. Even his appetite was affected and he spent most of his time just drinking tea.

Maria worried about him, and he tried to reassure he was okay but he could tell she didn't believe him. He hated feeling as if he was in limbo.

On the thirteenth day after he had killed Thomas McAllister, aka Red John, he finally decided he'd had enough and it was time to move on. It probably still wasn't safe, but he knew if he stayed any longer he'd go insane. Maria had tried to dissuade him, but eventually had given up. She threw up her arms, muttered something dire in Spanish, and had walked out of the room. He was touched that she worried about him so – but for her sake as well as his own it was time for him to leave.

He'd had to touch up his hair, as the roots were beginning to grow out, and he gave himself another trim. He'd stopped shaving and had a scruffy beard – which, surprisingly, had grown in red. He'd had to have Maria buy him some dye and soon he was sporting dark hair and a dark beard.

He got up the next day - exactly two weeks after he'd arrived – and got ready. He donned the clothes that Maria had procured for him from the thrift store, combed his hair – his very short, dark hair – and put on the glasses. A complete stranger stared back at him.

"How's this?" he asked Maria as he walked into the living room. She muttered another Spanish exclamation, but then nodded. "You will do Patrick. But where will you go?"

"It's best if you don't know Maria," he told her. "When I'm safe I'll let you know, okay?"

She shook her head. "I do not like it, but I know you too well and know that you will not accept any more held from me. Just please – be careful! I do not want to hear that you got arrested, or worse."

"Don't worry, I know what I'm doing." He wrapped his arms around her and gave her a fierce hug. "Thank you – you'll never know how much what you have done has meant to me."

Maria reached up and patted Jane's face. "You be good, and you be careful. And remember – Angela and Charlotte are watching over you."

He smiled and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, but didn't respond to her words. He wasn't about to tell her that he didn't believe Angela or Charlotte were aware of anything. They were dead – dead and buried – and sadly, could not watch over him.

Jane opened the door and went to step out, when Maria grabbed him and gave him another hug. "Vaya con dios, mi hijo," she whispered. "Look after yourself – and find peace Patrick. You deserve it."

A moment later Jane was halfway down the block and – hopefully – on his way to freedom.

He grabbed a bus and travelled out of Santa Monica, into downtown Los Angeles. Once there, he grabbed a bus to Long Beach. No one paid any attention to him, although he kept his head down and did everything he could to not attract attention.

After arriving in Long Beach he finally took his burner phone out of his pocket and made a call to one of the numbers in his black book.

"Hi, this is David Sinclair," he told the man on the other end. "Do you remember me?" A moment later he'd hailed a cab and was heading towards the water.

Fifteen minutes later he knocked on the door of the dingy building. It was located close to the pier and the entrance was in the back alley – an alley which was dark, gloomy and malodorous. He didn't even try and identify what the various smells were. He didn't want to know.

"Whadya want?" growled the man who opened the door. He was big – at least 6'5" – and looked as gloomy and smelled as badly as did the alley. Patrick cleared his throat.

"My name's David Sinclair," he said. "I called a few minutes ago."

"ID."

Jane fumbled in his pocket and drew out his wallet and handed the man his license. The big guy stared at it for a long few seconds, turned it over and then stared at it again. He finally made a motion with his head, which Jane assumed meant he was to enter. He squeezed past the taciturn man and walked into a large, gloomy room.

The space was practically bare, furnished only by a scratched and wobbly-looking wooden table and two equally as decrepit looking chairs. It was illuminated by a single ceiling light – which at one time had been white, but now was stained with many years of dust and dead bugs. There was one window, although it was covered with newspaper, and a door at the back, which was presently closed.

"My, what a lovely home you have," he turned to his new friend, who continued to stare at him. "Uh – are youFred?"

"Mmm," the man grunted.

Jane took this as a "yes" and smiled at the other man. "So – I understand you have a way of getting me out of the country?"

"You got money?"

"I do indeed. Half now, half when I arrive – that's correct, right?"

"Show me."

Jane carefully pulled out an envelope from the inside of his jacket and handed it over. "Twenty-five thousand – it's all there."

Fred ignored him and pulled out the cash, dropping the envelope to the ground. He then started to count it – slowly and methodically. Jane had already reached the conclusion that the guy was a few pages short of a book. Hopefully, the man's rather slow brain was still able to get Jane out of the country, although he was beginning to have his doubts. That thought worried him.

Jane practically jumped out of his skin when the back door suddenly opened. He turned quickly, and saw a slim, dark, thirty-something man walk into the room.

The man gave his large colleague a pat on the back and then grinned at Jane.

"Mr. Sinclair, I presume?"

"Yes," Jane returned the smile, although his heart was beating a bit faster than it should have been. "And you are?"

"I'm Fred," the younger man answered. "I spoke with you on the phone."

" _You're_ Fred," Jane breathed a sigh of relief. "Then who's this?"

"This? This is Paulie." He gave the big man another pat on the back. "He helps me out sometimes, don't you Paulie?"

Paulie grunted, but then gave a nod. He also put his hand out – the hand with $25,000 of Jane's money."

"I counted it," he said.

"You counted it?" Fred grinned. "Good for you! For that you can have this." He pulled a twenty dollar bill from the pile of cash and handed it over.

Paulie's eyes got huge and he stared at the money. Finally he looked up with tears in his eyes. "Thanks Boss."

"You can go now," Fred said to him. He watched the large, morose man leave the room and sighed. "He's not too smart, but he does come in handy." He turned back to Jane. "Okay, this is the down payment," he said holding up the wad of cash. "The rest of it will be wired to me when you're safe?"

"Yes, that was the deal."

"Mmm – and don't think about cheating me out of the remainder, or you'll meet Paulie again. You may have noticed that he doesn't talk much, but I can assure you, he _does_ like using his hands."

"You'll get your money," Jane said calmly. "So what happens now?"

"Now? Now you wait," Fred indicated the chair. "You have a passport?"

"Yes,"

"Good – keep a hold of it. You'll need it."

"To get out of the country?"

"No," Fred grinned. "To get _in_ to where you're going. Now wait here, I'll be back."

"Uh –how long?"

"As long as I need," Fred said, again with a smile. Jane was pretty sure that Fred wasn't quite the nice guy he seemed. In fact, Jane knew he was both ruthless and cruel and had killed before. But the word on the street was, if you paid fairly and didn't double cross him – then you were okay. Fred was first, and foremost, a businessman. He knew that harming or killing clients wouldn't get him very far. So the result was you got exactly what you paid for, no more, no less – and with no problems.

After Fred left the room, Jane let out a slow breath and sat down on one of the chairs. It creaked, and for a moment he wondered if it would hold him or whether he'd end up with injuries from an inglorious tumble.

Jane was dozing – his head resting on the table – when the door opened again. He sat up with a start, and then groaned when he felt the newly acquired kink in his neck. Damn, he must have been asleep for a while!

"Good, you had a rest," a jovial sounding Fred told him. Paulie stood behind his employer and Jane figured one of his jobs was as personal bodyguard to Fred. "You want to be well- rested for your trip."

Jane blinked himself awake, or at least tried to. He was so tired after spending night after night unable to sleep soundly at Maria's place. He also felt a sudden surge of irritation. There was something about Fred that got under his skin. Normally he'd lash out and let the man know what he thought about him. But considering his circumstances, he figured it wasn't wise to anger the man who was going to help him.

"I'm well-rested," he agreed. "So, is everything ready to go?"

"Whoa," Fred laughed. "Anxious, aren't you? First let's go over a few details."

By the time Jane made it to the cargo ship – courtesy of Paulie who drove him there in an ancient van – it was late in the evening. He'd spent almost a full day in the one room, bored, anxious and uncomfortable. He knew the next few days weren't going to be particularly pleasant – but at least he would be on the move.

He got out of the van and walked with Paulie towards a man who was standing at the base of the gangway to a large cargo ship. Paulie, his usual verbose self, grunted to the man, handed him an envelope, and then turned and headed back to the car without so much as a glance at the man who had spent the day waiting at his establishment.

"Lovely meeting you Paulie," Jane called out after the large oaf. When the man turned he grinned and waved – which caused Paulie to look horribly confused. Jane laughed softly as he turned back to the man waiting on him.

"Chou Meestare Seenclare?" the man asked, in a heavy accent.

"Yes, that's me."

"Come." The man turned and headed up the walkway. "Chou stay in chor rroom. We breeng chou food."

"Okay," Jane nodded, knowing he had little choice in the matter. He was little more than a piece of unwanted cargo – cargo that had paid a pretty penny for the privilege however. Hopefully the voyage wouldn't be long because the thought of being stuck inside, without fresh air and sunlight, was depressing.

They travelled deep into the bowels of the ship, well below the water line. It was an old cargo ship – things looked rusted and worn and water – hopefully from condensation - dripped off the metal walls and doors. It felt damp and chilly and very inhospitable. Still, it represented safety, so Jane wasn't about to complain.

They finally came to a small corridor with an even smaller door at the very end. Jane had to duck down – almost bending in half – to make it inside. He had a whimsical thought that some kind of ship's gnome must live here.

When he straightened up he looked at the room – his bedroom for the next few days. Inside was a mattress on the floor with a blanket and pillow. In the corner of the was a covered bucket and beside it a stack of toilet paper. There was also a large bowl with a pitcher beside it – his sink he supposed. Great – he was really going to have to rough it with no plumbing. Also in the room was a tray with a bottle of water, a wrapped sandwich, a box of crackers and a box of cookies. A healthy diet was clearly not on the menu.

"Choo stay here," his friend, whose name he didn't know, informed him.

"Okay, sure. By the way, what should I call you?"

The man smirked. "Whatever choo want!"

"Uh – okay. Can you tell me how long until we get to where we're going?"

The man shrugged. "Fife days," he answered. With that he turned and headed out the door, which clanged behind him. Jane listened for a moment, to see whether he'd be locked in. When everything was silent he breathed a sigh of relief. The thought of being locked into this tin can was frightening.

He waited another twenty minutes and then tried the door. Again to his relief, it opened immediately. He peeked out into the corridor but it was empty and silent. He slowly closed the door and turned and looked at his home for the next five days. He sighed and went to lie down on the mattress.

Nothing happened for the next 36 hours and he was starting to wonder if they were ever going to leave Los Angeles. The longer they stayed the more chance that he'd be discovered, although he was pretty sure he'd covered his tracks as well as he could. The one real downside was the inability to contact Lisbon. She had to be going crazy wondering where he was.

Twice a day the man who'd brought him to his room – he'd found out his name was Luis – would come by with food, water and a clean bucket. He'd remove the old one and be gone in less than 2 minutes.

The second time Luis came by, Jane asked if there was any way he could get a cup of tea. His "host" simply raised an eyebrow, shrugged and left. The next time he came, however, he did bring a cup of steaming liquid. Jane was excited until he discovered it was coffee, not tea. Still, it was hot and gave a bit of variety to the water.

Forty hours after arriving he felt the engines start. Thirty minutes later he could feel the movement of the ship and knew they were on their way. For some reason he felt nervous – almost as if he expected the cops to show up at the last minute and arrest him. For the next couple of hours – probably long after the time they had left American waters – he sat with his heart beating wildly. Only after a severe talking to, and a determined session of relaxation, did he settle down. For now he should be safe.

By the time five days had gone by he was feeling sticky and dirty and ready to claw his way out of his metal prison. He'd taken a chance and gone for a walk a few times up and down the corridor but had never ventured beyond that– he figured they wanted him down here for a reason and getting caught seeing something, or someone he shouldn't, wouldn't be smart.

He was lying on the mattress, trying to keep his mind occupied with something interesting, and _not_ related to his situation, when the door opened. He turned to see Luis standing there.

"Come – now," the man said.

Jane pushed himself to his feet. "What is it?" he asked, feeling slightly nervous again.

"We are here," the man told him. As soon as Jane was up, Luis began to walk down the corridor and – hopefully – out of the ship.

When Jane finally walked up the last set of stairs and out to bright blue sunlight and fresh air, he wanted to put his arms out and shout. He could feel the tension of the last few days beginning to disappate, although he knew he still wasn't quite to safety – yet.

"Chor passaporte," Luis told him.

"I have it." Jane reached into his jacket and pulled out the passport.

"Good. We go now."

"Uh, okay, but where?"

Luis looked at him. "Someone will meet choo."

Since that was all he'd say, Jane nodded and then lined up with a group of men – crew members he assumed – and waited until they had the go ahead to walk down the walkway and off of the ship. None of the men paid any attention to him, which made him think this wasn't that uncommon an experience.

He glanced back once, to see the man he assumed was the captain, looking at him. He didn't react when Jane caught his eye, but slowly turned away. He clearly wanted to stay as far away from Jane and his escape as he could.

Eventually it was Jane's turn to leave the ship. There was an immigration officer waiting on the pier and he handed his passport over, trying to look as calm as possible. The officer looked at his picture and then back at him a few times causing Jane to sweat. Eventually he nodded and handed the passport back. Jane was free to go.

He walked forward onto dry land, looking around him carefully. He was in Costa Rica, but that wouldn't do him any good if he got caught. It had an extradition treaty with the US and he'd be back on home soil in a blink of an eye.

"Mr. Sinclair." He looked up to see an older woman – American by the look of her. She was smiling at him and looked friendly. Another one like Fred, he thought. Because in spite of the smile, the woman had the coldest eyes he'd ever seen.

"Yes, that's me."

"Good. Come with me please. She turned and walked briskly away, not looking back to see whether or not he was following. A few minutes later they walked up to a small, white building and she quickly entered. With only a second to look around, Jane entered behind her.

"I have arranged for someone to take you to Porto Limon," she told him. "But I'm afraid it will cost you extra."

"Extra? I was told everything was covered by my payment."

The woman shrugged. "If you want to go to the Port, you'll have to pay."

Jane regarded her closely and suddenly shivered. This was an evil woman. "How much extra? I don't have that much."

"Five thousand," she told him. "And I'll need it before you leave."

"That'll wipe me out," he said. "How am I supposed to survive with no money?"

"Not my problem."

Jane took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Finally, with a nod, he reached into his jacket and took out another envelope. He glanced inside it and then handed it over to the woman. She looked at the bills carefully and then counted it.

"Roberto," she called suddenly. A few seconds later a young man entered the room. Jane wondered if it was her son.

"You will take Mr. Sinclair to Porto Limon. Drop him off at Chaco's."

"Si bien Mama," he replied. After a quick look at Jane he then turned and left the room.

"You will forget me and my son," the woman told him. "If you get arrested you do not know anything about us. If you talk, you will not long survive in jail." A moment later she was gone, his five thousand dollars in her hand.

Jane was glad to see the last of her. A moment later he heard a loud noise and opened the door to the street. Roberto had pulled up with a rickety old motorcycle. Jane sighed. He expected his was going to be his ride.

The next 8 hours were some of the wildest Jane had ever experienced. The roads in Costa Rica left something to be desired. He was pretty sure he'd never seen so many and such large potholes on any road anywhere. On top of that, Roberto was not exactly a careful, slow driver. In fact, there were many times when Jane was sure he was going to die on the roads of Costa Rica.

But eventually they made it. It was already dark by the time they arrived in Limon and Jane was starving. When he told Roberto he wanted to eat, the young man grinned and drove to a small café hidden away off the highway.

Jane enjoyed the best meal he'd had since leaving Maria's. He ate way too much, but he wasn't sure how much he'd be getting to eat in the next few days. He also allowed himself to have a beer, the cold liquid feeling like heaven going down his throat.

After dinner – for which he paid (he'd lied to the woman about his money – he had various bundles hidden about his person) Roberto drove him down to a Marina.

"You will meet him here," he told Jane.

"Uh – who and when?"

"He is here now," he said, nodding his head over towards a boat lit up like a Christmas tree. "Just go and tell him that Jessica sent you."

"Okay," he replied. "And thanks for the ride."

"Anytime," Roberto grinned. With a small wave he headed off, leaving Jane standing on the pier. He looked towards the boat and with a small shrug began to walk towards it.

"Hellooo!" he called. "Anybody home?"

The boat was a medium sized cabin cruiser and looked like something a semi-wealthy person would own. He wondered what that kind of person was doing in this business.

"Hello," he called again. A moment later a man appeared from down below. He swung himself up the stairs energetically. He was a good looking man – maybe 40 to 45 years old. He was tall, but not as tall as Paulie, had gray hair and the look of a banker or accountant. Jane waited while the man came to the edge of the boat.

"Hello," he said again. "Jessica sent me."

"Oh hi! Yeah, she said you wanted a trip to the islands – no questions asked."

"Yes, that's right. My name's Sinclair, David Sinclair."

"Hi David," the other man smiled "I'm Jack Stacey. You're welcome to come on board! I didn't know when exactly you'd get here, but I made sure everything was ready. Uh – did you bring anything with you – clothes, toiletries?"

"No, sorry," Jane answered, carefully pulling himself onto the boat. "I had to leave in – rather a hurry."

"Hey, no problem! I can provide you with a few things, and all the supplies you'll need are in the head below. You'll have your own cabin and head – and help yourself to anything from the kitchen. Would you like a beer?"

Suddenly Jane felt himself start to relax. Jack appeared to be a decent guy – the first he'd met since leaving Maria's. On top of that, the boat looked nice. It wasn't too huge, but it was big enough to have some nice amenities.

"That would be great," he answered. He'd had one already, but a second one was sounding really good right now. It had been a stressful day.

Jack showed him his quarters and where he could find drinks and snacks. He then left him to relax while he started the boat.

Jane looked around his room. It was small and very compact, but it was comfortable. He could feel himself get sleepy and leaned back on the bed. He lay thinking about his journey so far – and how close he was getting to the end of it. He just hoped that he would make it.

With that he closed his eyes and soon was asleep.


	3. Opening the Cupboard

_**For those of you who like a lot of dialogue and action, I'm sorry! This story (to this point at least) is more about Jane's thoughts and his personal journey as he gets to his tropical refuge. As the story moves on there will be more interaction.**_

 _ **Just a note on location for this chapter - I had assumed (like many others) that Jane had escaped to Venezuela (probably Margarita Island). I did a little research, however, and discovered that Venezuela actually**_ _ **does have an extradition treaty with the US. So, I'm leaving Jane on an unnamed island in the Caribbean without a treaty!**_

 _ **Thanks for all the reviews. I don't know if I should continue, or whether people are enjoying if I don't hear from people! I may end this story soon, unless people want it to continue through season six. Please let me know!**_

They arrived the next evening, just as the sun was about to set. Jane stood on the deck of the boat and watched as they neared the small island. It was beautiful, enchanting. The brilliant rose and orange of the sunset cast a warm glow on the beaches and trees beyond.

At least it was a lovely spot, he thought, knowing that he would probably spend the rest of his life here. Instead of pleasure, or even relief, somehow that thought made him deeply sad. He had never expected his life would take him to this point – exiled on a small Caribbean island, far from his friends and former life. Alone.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was tired – so tired. All he wanted to do was collapse and sleep, maybe for weeks. That way he could avoid thinking about all that he'd lost in his life. For now the thoughts – everything he'd lost - kept swirling through his brain.

Angie, Charlotte – his two beautiful girls who he had loved with all his soul and who had died horribly – because of him. He still missed them every moment of every day.

His mother – taken from the world at too young an age – leaving an innocent, shy little boy who was lost without her – and who soon fell victim to a selfish, ruthless father.

His family, his career, his home, his _life_ – all destroyed because of one sadistic man. He still didn't know how he had survived – but he had.

And then a new life, rebuilt on the ashes of the old. Friends, comrades – a team, who stuck with him in spite of all his tricks, his lies. Cho – the enigmatic one, yet always ready to participate in his schemes – straightforward, no nonsense and ultimately trustworthy; Grace – kind, gentle, a woman of deep faith who always hoped for the best, who wanted all things good for him; Rigsby – big, lumbering Rigsby, smarter than he sometimes seemed, kind, faithful – fun to tease, but always there for him.

And then there was Teresa – what could he say about her? He closed his eyes and pictured her – tiny yet fierce! Tough, strong, honest and full of integrity – softer than she'd like others to believe- ready to defend him one moment, or to call him out the next. Teresa – the woman he – cared about, who cared for him, who had _saved_ him. How could he get through his days without her by his side?

He didn't know if he wanted to.

"We're almost there," Jack called to him from the upper deck. "Can you get ready to tie her off?"

Jane walked over to the lines, glad to have something to take his mind off his thoughts. He couldn't spend time thinking about his team – or about Teresa. He had chosen his path, had known what the consequences would be and he had to accept them. He had to build a new life, _another_ life, here on this tropical island. He wondered if he could do it again.

The boat knocked against the pier, the fenders like fat fingers, keeping the wood of the pier from touching the boat. Jane quickly tied off the lines and then stood back and waited for Jack.

"Great – thanks," Jack said, swinging down from the ladder to the main deck. "If you head straight that way," he pointed, "you'll come to the town. There's a hotel in the main plaza that's pretty nice."

"What about you?" Jane asked.

"Nah – I'll stay here on the boat. I have to head out at first light – I have another passenger to pick up," he grinned. "Good luck with everything. This is a nice place – not too exciting, but the people are friendly."

"Good – that's good," Jane replied, looking towards the village, his new home. He took a deep breath and then turned and held out his hand. "Thank you." Jack had been genuinely friendly and had made the last leg of his journey comfortable. He wondered briefly if he knew that he was transporting a fugitive, but then figured the guy probably didn't care. He looked as if there wasn't much that bothered him in this world. Jane envied him.

"No problem," Jack grinned and shook his hand. "I made a few bucks for an easy trip. Maybe I'll see you around some time."

Jane hopped off the boat and onto the pier. He gave a brief wave and then headed off towards the town. He was surprised at how easy it was to get onto the island – there didn't appear to be any officials or customs agents anywhere in sight. He was grateful he didn't have to deal with any officials – he wanted to find a place to rest and to collapse.

He walked slowly towards the light – laughing softly at that imagery – and soon found himself in a narrow street. He looked around in the fading light at the quaint little village – the adobe buildings, dusty streets, colorful flowers. There were a few people milling around, but no one seemed to pay him any attention.

He had to stop, at one point, and ask for directions, fortunately from someone who spoke a bit of English. It dawned on him then that he was going to have to learn to speak Spanish if he was going to live here. He grimaced – he'd never been very good at foreign languages.

He arrived at the hotel – it looked pretty and clean, but not overly fancy - perfect for him, for tonight. He made his way to the front desk.

"Do you have any rooms available?" he asked, hoping the person behind the desk spoke English.

With a smile the young woman, whose nametag said Sofía, turned to him. "Yes Señor."

Soon he was settled in a room – it was clean but plain and just what he needed. He stripped off his jacket, kicked off his shoes and lay down on the bed. He was asleep almost instantly.

Over the next few days he explored his new home. The town was small, with few services but enough for him to survive. The best part of the island was the waterfront. He'd always loved the ocean and he knew he was going to spend many hours walking and exploring the beaches. Standing by the ocean brought a measure of peace that little else could.

He stayed at the hotel for a week, until he found himself a room. During that time he met Franklin Morales, the hotel bellhop and general help. Soon he counted the young man as his first, and so far only, friend on the island. In many ways Franklin reminded him of a combination of Grace and Rigsby – with a touch of Teresa thrown in. The young man helped, in a small way, to fill the hole that had been filled by his team.

It was Franklin who helped him find an apartment by introducing Jane to his sister Luisa, who had a room for rent on the second floor of her house. He took a look at it and instantly took it. The apartment was rustic, and made up of a single room and bathroom – but it was enough for him. It also came furnished, which made life easier. He moved the next day from the hotel to his new home.

As he got ready for bed on his first night he looked around the room – bare of any personal touches – and felt a heaviness descend on him. He didn't particularly care about the lack of amenities, or the simplicity of his surroundings. He'd lived plainly and without any real possessions for the last ten years and now he had everything he needed to survive. The problem was, that's all he was doing – surviving.

He sat on the edge of his bed and slowly bent until his head was resting in his hands. He had no one to blame for where he was right now. He'd done it – he'd made the choices that had led him here. Looking back, he admitted there was little he would do differently – except for that first big mistake of taunting a serial killer. But from the moment he'd walked into the CBI office so many years ago, to the moment his hand had wrapped around Thomas McAllister's throat – his life had followed the plan he had made for himself, the plan he'd made when Sophie Miller had convinced him that there was meaning to his life. From that moment on he'd stopped planning to kill himself, and had instead planned to kill Red John.

So now, here he was – a fugitive living out his life on a tiny island in the Caribbean – no family, no close friends, no purpose in life other than to live and die a free man.

He lifted his head and looked around the room again – and took a deep breath. There was no point in regrets, no _purpose_ to them. He'd simply better get on with living life here in this tropical paradise.

The next few weeks he started to get to know the place and the people. Other than Franklin – who he saw a once or twice a week – he really didn't seek out any new friends. He met people – you couldn't help it in such a small place – and soon got to know names and what everyone did. The villagers were friendly, and were patient with his inability to speak Spanish – but he continued to keep them at a distance. He didn't have the emotional energy to build new friendships. And there was too much danger of more loss. He would keep himself apart – friendly but not a friend – that way he would never be in danger of having his heart ripped out again.

The one thing he did do – because he couldn't survive not knowing – was try and discover what had happened with the Blake Association, the CBI – and especially his team.

He was fortunate to come across some English newspapers left in the hotel and read about the dissolution of the Blake Association and the massive number of arrests throughout California law enforcement. But it took weeks –weeks of worry – before he found out anything about his team.

When nothing had been said in the newspapers, in desperation he'd finally gotten in touch with Pete Barsoki – and had asked him to discover all he could about his team. It had taken 2 weeks but eventually he'd received a quick phone call from Pete telling him that they were all okay, that they'd all been cleared by the FBI and weren't being charged with anything. Beyond that there was no news.

He was relieved that they hadn't gotten in trouble because of him, but he still wished he knew where they were, what they were doing. All of them had taken pride in their jobs, and would have to start over somewhere else. He felt a surge of guilt for that, although he knew that he wasn't at fault for Blake. Still, he felt like he'd led them to the point of losing their jobs.

He worried especially about Teresa, knowing how important her job was to her. He hoped she found something to replace it, something which would make her happy. He just wished he could be there with her.

Unfortunately – that was no longer possible.

Since there was nothing else he could do about his team, he knew he had to let them go, to try not to think of them – beyond wishing them well. It was difficult but his life was here now, on the island so far from home.

But things weren't all bleak. He did get some fleeting joy out of the children on the island, who were often out in the streets, running around and generally getting into mischief. He caught one boy mercilessly teasing his little sister and immediately came to her rescue. Using a bit of simple magic, he got her to stop crying and start giggling in a matter of minutes. Soon after that a crowd of youngsters joined them, and so began his gig as the local street magician and children's entertainer.

Life continued pretty much the same, day in and day out. He spent hours exploring the waterfront and soon had had to buy himself clothes to wear on the beach as well as a few new shirts. He found a local tailor who hand made him some shirts and he began wearing a sarong around his waist so as not to wreck his one and only pair of suit pants.

Life took a slight turn for the better the day that he found Alfredo's. It was a local bar and restaurant and was situated right on the beach. The best part of it was that the owner made great scrambled eggs – although his tea wasn't the best. Jane offered to teach him – which hadn't gone over too well, but in the end he'd convinced Alfredo to make it the proper way. Tea was one of his few pleasures, and it had to be just right.

It was there that he also met Roger – who spent his days at the bar, but didn't say much of anything to anyone. He found out, through Franklin, that Roger had been there for years – no one knew where he'd come from, or why he was there. He was a local institution and people seemed to accept him, although often with a roll of their eyes.

Jane figured that Roger was like him – a fugitive who had come to the island to escape something. He refused to compare himself any further to the old man – the thought of turning into him one day was too horrifying.

Life went on. Every day was much like the previous one – a walk by the ocean, sometimes a swim, breakfast at Alfredo's, a walk through the village and some time spent with the kids – stopping by to say hi and chat with Franklin and then on to the market to buy a few things for dinner. Then it was back home – eat, bathe and read – and then to bed. The next day started all over again.

One thing that improved life slightly was the discovery of a small bookstore that sold some English books. Most of them were used, left by tourists, but that didn't matter. They still provided Jane with something to do. He also started a journal, a suggestion Sophie Miller had made to him years ago, but which he only started now. Prior to this the only thing he'd been interested in writing had been his notes to help him find Red John.

Now he wrote about his days and about the little things he saw or experienced. He described the village and the people in it. It helped in a small way, but he realized, after having been on the island for almost two months, that writing a journal to himself, ultimately made him feel even more alone.

He looked down at the journal and at the pen in his hand, and found himself feeling blue – he had no one to share his thoughts, his experiences – the sights, sounds with – no one at all.

He sighed and put down the pen and just sat there, feeling a wave of sadness and loneliness wash over him. He wanted desperately to have a conversation with someone, to tease, to laugh, to argue. He wanted someone to call him _Jane_ in just that way that – but there was no one. Of course he could go and talk to Franklin, but the young man wouldn't really understand and treated him with a measure of awe and respect he didn't need. No, he needed someone who wasn't afraid of him. But there wasn't anyone.

With a groan Patrick stood up, stretched and decided to head for a walk. Although it was the middle of the day, and the sun would be hot, he needed to get out of his room. He was suddenly feeling claustrophobic and wanted some fresh air. Maybe it would blow away his dark mood.

"Hola Meester Yane."

He glanced up, to see Luisa, his landlady, smiling at him. She was a widow – her husband had been killed in some kind of accident, although Franklin would never tell him what exactly had happened. He suspected that the dead Manni had been involved in something illegal and had gotten himself murdered. He decided he really didn't want to know.

Luisa couldn't have been more than twenty-five, but was clearly out for husband number two. Jane suspected that she found him intriguing and would have gone after him if it weren't for his ring. He worried that one day she'd finally decide that since there was no wife in evidence, he was fair game. He'd have to figure out a story to tell Franklin, who could then warn his sister away. He really didn't want her to get mad at him. He'd grown accustomed to his room.

"Hola Luisa," he answered with a smile. "Me voy a dar un paseo," he said in his stumbling Spanish.

"Bueno," she answered with a coy grin. "¿Iré con tigo?"

Damn, she wanted to go with him! "Uh – gracias - thanks, but- uh - está bien. I'm just going for a swim."

She scrunched up her nose. "Sweemin? No me gusta! Ten quidado Meester Yane – be careful!"

"Thanks, I will." He gave her a small wave and then headed down the street towards the beach. Whew! That had been close. It was a good thing he didn't see her looking hungrily after him.

He spent the afternoon wandering down the beach, farther than he'd been, exploring areas he hadn't yet seen. He came across a few people – mostly locals, although there were a few tourists. He did nothing more than say hi, although a few people looked as if they wanted to stop and talk.

By the time he returned it was early evening and his legs were tired. The rest of him was still restless and still as melancholy as ever. He decided then and there that he had to figure out some way to get over the feelings of loss and loneliness that plagued him. He didn't want to spend the rest of his life like this.

He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. It was then that the little voice in his head, the one he'd so studiously avoided for years, started to drown out everything else in his mind.

It told him that he finally had to deal with all that he'd put on hold while he'd searched for Red John. He had known, for years, that much of his anguish, his guilt, his loss had been bottled up and put away in a cupboard in his memory palace - and in it's place he'd put vengeance. But now vengeance was done, was gone – and the other feelings were bursting out of that cupboard and were beginning to overwhelm him.

But he didn't want to deal with anything, he cried silently. He didn't want to face it all – not yet, not now, not ever.

But the part of him that was honest with himself told him he had no choice – not if he truly wanted to live, if he ever wanted to experience happiness and life again.

A single tear escaped from his eye and he took another deep breath – and finally surrendered. The time had come to let his mind and heart open up to the truth.


	4. Finally Goodbye

That day he cried.

Except for a few inescapable tears when something specific made him focus on his daughter or his wife – or especially their deaths – he hadn't really cried for them.

And he hated himself for that.

He'd always been afraid to cry. He'd known, deep down in his soul, that if he let go, if he let himself truly think about what he had lost, he wouldn't be able to come back. He suspected that he'd lose what little was left of himself.

He'd spent months in a mental hospital, learning to deal with his grief, to not go mad with it – or maybe to come _back_ from madness. But there he'd also learned to suppress grief, to cover it over with his quest, to laugh, to pretend, to wear a mask. What he hadn't done, was face it. No – over time the mask had become part of him and sometimes even he hadn't known it wasn't real, hadn't known that he hadn't let himself grieve.

Now it was time. There was nothing to stand in the way of his grief; no quest, no team, no friends, no work. All that was left was miles of ocean and a man who had nothing but his memories.

He sat on the beach and looked out towards the water, long into the evening, long after the sun had set – and he cried. And through his tears he remembered – he _made_ himself remember because he knew it was finally time, it was something he had to do. So he thought about his wife, about Angela – her face, her shape – how she laughed, how she cried, how she made love. He heard her voice in his mind, he smelled her, he felt her – he surrounded himself with her memory. He opened her room in his memory palace and let all of her out.

Angela – his Angela. The little girl who had followed him around, the teenaged girl who had been his only friend, the woman who was his love – he thought of her – and he cried.

He cried for her, and for himself. He longed to hold her again, to have her beside him, the one knowing him and yet still loving him. He wanted her to come and sit beside him, to rest her head on his shoulder and together, with him, face the world.

Angela – his love was gone, and he cried.

He thought about Charlotte – the baby who slipped into his arms and then immediately into his heart. Her toothless grin, followed by giggles and kisses. Her big blue eyes looking at him, loving him. Tossing her into the air, holding her, teaching her – loving her. Charlotte - his little girl who loved him without reserve – who looked to him as her hero. His sweet daughter, who he'd never hold, who would never give him kisses, was gone. He'd never again hear her giggles or smell her sweet, innocent smell.

Charlotte – his baby was gone, and he cried.

He cried until the sun came up. And then, finally, he stopped. It was not that his grief had gone – but he was exhausted. He was also calm – calmer than he'd been in many years. By letting himself cry, by remembering his girls, the grief that had lived buried was starting to emerge, and as it did, it began to lose its power over him.

He had finally begun to face his grief, and, yes, it had brought him to his knees. But it hadn't destroyed him. He felt tired, yes – exhausted and weak – but he had survived. He had survived the memories, the reality of his loss. He had thought the grief would destroy him – but he had finally let it go and rather than destroying him, it had cleansed him.

He knew his grief wouldn't simply disappear in one night. But he also knew that the first step had been taken – and that he was going to be okay.

He chuckled softly – although there was little humor in it. It had taken him long enough to get to this point. Ten years. Ten long years in which he hadn't let himself truly _feel_. But as of tonight, that was no longer true. There was no quest – no Red John. There was no team, no finding and arresting bad guys, no purpose left, except to look reality in the eye, and finally accept it.

He had lost his family – and he missed them. He was alone – and he was lonely. But rather than destroy him, he was going to acknowledge those things, make them part of who he was – but then he would go on. He would go on and he would live.

Feeling shaky, he stood and wiped the sand from his pants. He knew he must look like hell – his face blotchy, his hair wild from the wind, and his clothes wrinkled and covered in sand. No matter. It was early and he could go home and sleep.

And he did just that. He walked slowly back to his room, seeing only a few early morning housewives and listening to roosters welcome the beginning of the day. He made it up the stairs to his room, opened his door and began to strip. He was tempted to simply throw himself on his bed, but decided he didn't want to deal with all the sand.

Once naked he climbed under the covers and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath – in some ways it felt like the first really deep breath he'd taken in years – and closed his eyes.

Within minutes he was sound asleep.

He slept for over twelve hours. There were no bad dreams, no waking up – just deep, cleansing sleep. He couldn't claim to be happy – that was something that disappeared ten years before – but he was feeling tranquil.

Over the next few weeks he spent time, each day, consciously thinking about Angela and Charlotte. Although it was hard, he tried to keep the memories to more happy times. The picture of the last time he'd seen them kept trying to intrude, but he would force it out. He had to work to start erasing that memory – to remove it from his mind. It would take time and work, but he was determined to no longer let it live with him.

It was hard, during those weeks, not to fall constantly into deep and paralyzing grief. Some days he didn't want to get out of bed. Some days he grew so angry he wanted to destroy something. There were even times he thought about going and getting drunk. Instead he would go to the beach and sit quietly – and cry - and remember his girls.

Over time he recognized that things were starting to change, that he was moving to a new place in his grief. It wasn't that the grief was any less – but the moments between – when he felt calm and not full of anguish, became longer and longer. In some strange way he felt himself coming back to life. The strange detachment, numbness of the past ten years had left and been replaced by him finally facing his agony. In facing it, he was finally winning.

Two months after he had begun his journey – his acceptance of grief, he woke up, and knew that today was a momentous day. He knew exactly what he had to do. Gathering a few items he quickly checked that his door was locked and then he headed towards his favorite spot on the beach. Along the way he stopped and bought two flowers – two white lilies.

He stood beside the water for a long time, again thinking of Angela, of Charlotte. Finally he closed his eyes, and for the first time spoke. "I will always love you Angela. I will always love you Charlotte." He paused and took a deep breath. Then he opened his eyes and looked at the wide expanse of ocean. "Goodbye", he whispered, and then he tossed the two flowers into the water.

As the tears streamed down his face, he knew that what he had just done was the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life – but it was the right thing. It was time to finally say goodbye.


	5. Letters

_**So, my initial plan was actually to write a story through the end of My Blue Heaven – I made a mistake and wrote to the end of Blue Bird. But I'm having fun with this one, and people seem to want it to continue, so I thought I might as well keep going! I will only lightly cover the various episodes, continuing to focus more on Jane's thoughts as he goes home and restarts his life.**_

 _ **I had a bit of trouble with Jane's letters to Lisbon, while on the island. If you read the letter he sent in My Blue Heaven, it sounded like the first one he'd written – but then we see her with a stack of letters, and Abbott refers to letters not letter. When we see him writing in the episode it's just before he goes home – so can't be the first one he's written. I'll pretend that it's not – and make up my own story!**_

 _ **Hope everyone continues to enjoy.**_

He'd been on the island for six months – facing his demons – when he woke up one day to the realization that he actually felt _good._ It was such a strange feeling that for the longest time he simply lay in bed, not quite sure what to do.

As he lay there, thinking about his life, he knew that he didn't expect happiness to return, but he suddenly wondered if he could strive for contentment. He had achieved a measure of peace over the past few months – peace and acceptance. The next step was to see if he could begin to find something to look forward to each day.

With those thoughts running through his mind he finally sat up – and then he yawned and stretched. He was alive and he was free – and he needed to remember that.

He just wished he had something, _anything_ to do, to look forward to. Suddenly, without warning, his mind went to his team and all the things he had done with them. Even though those years had been filled with his search for vengeance, he _had_ had a purpose – he had accomplished something and that had made that time, not just bearable, but also productive. And right now he really missed that. And then he realized something else. It wasn't just the work, it was the _people_ he missed _._ He missed his team.

After he had found out that they weren't being charged, he'd not allowed himself to think about them. He felt slightly guilty about that, but understood that he hadn't had the emotional resources to deal with his grief over his family _and_ his grief over losing his team. Now, however, he began to wonder how each of them was doing, _what_ each of them was doing. He wished he had some way of finding out.

He got dressed and, after breakfast, went for a walk through the town. He smiled and said hello to people, but didn't stop and talk. Instead, he thought about his former CBI teammates.

Cho. He laughed when he thought about the enigmatic agent – who was always up for mischief. Of all of them he was pretty sure that Kimball would have taken the loss of the CBI in stride. He was one of the steadiest individuals Jane had ever met and he was also a very smart man. Jane was sure he'd go far. He was also sure, that if at all possible, Cho had somehow stayed in law enforcement.

Then there were Grace and Wayne. He was happy that they'd finally gotten together and knew that they'd have each other as they made new lives and careers. They too were smart and they were young and would do just fine.

Lisbon was the one he worried about – the one it had been hardest to not think of over the last few months. Her career was everything to her. He knew about her childhood and knew that being in law enforcement filled a need in her that grew out of her past. He didn't blame her for that – hell, he'd done the same. But he didn't know how the loss of her job, of the CBI would affect her. He hoped she had been able to find something good to replace it with.

He wondered if maybe, now that she wasn't with the CBI, she'd find. She _needed_ someone to love and to love her. Teresa was a woman of ultimate compassion and caring and without a team to look after, would feel lost. The thought of her finding someone – although he wanted it for her - was surprisingly painful – terribly painful in fact. He frowned, not wanting to explore why that was. He'd had enough emotions and feelings to deal with over the last few months. He didn't want to go there now, especially since there was no purpose in it.

But then, without warning, he felt such a longing to see her, to _hug_ her that it took his breath away. He blinked in surprise – and felt another bolt of grief. But this time, it wasn't his wife or daughter he was thinking about, but rather Teresa Lisbon.

He closed his eyes and thought about his little Lisbon – all fire and spice! He thought about her compassion, her keen sense of right and wrong, of her loyalty to her family and her team. But above all he thought of the fact that she had saved him, had kept him going all these years.

Damn it! He missed her. He missed her so badly his heart hurt and there was nothing he could do about it. He would never see her again – and that was so painful he didn't want to think about it. He spent the rest of the day wandering down the beach – feeling unsettled and lonelier than ever.

It was late that night, when he once again couldn't sleep, that he cursed and got up. Rummaging around his small desk, he pulled out a piece of paper and a pen and sat down. After staring at the paper for a long time, he finally picked up the pen and began to write.

 _Dear Lisbon:_

 _I hope this letter finds you well. I have been thinking of you and wondering how you are doing._

 _I am doing well. Life is good here. It is peaceful and it is beautiful. The sky is blue, the air warm and the ocean stretches on endlessly. My days are filled now with little things – but that's fine. I no longer have to be surrounded by death._

 _The people here are warm and friendly, although not so friendly as to interfere with me, which is good. I know you would enjoy meeting some of them! There are the ladies at the post office – they sit there all day, waiting for people to come and buy stamps or mail letters. They are also good for the latest gossip around town. I haven't figured out yet how they know everything, when they never seem to move from their chairs._

 _There are children everywhere, running around, getting into mischief, but generally just being children. They seem to like my tricks, which keeps me in practice. Some days they remind me of smaller versions of Rigsby._

 _Speaking of Rigsby – I hope he and Grace are doing well. Have they started a family yet? Somehow I think Grace was ready for a child, and Wayne would want to give her one. Have you ever seen someone so in love as him?_

 _There are other people I am getting to know here. Franklin, a young man, works at the local hotel and is also a source of all knowledge around here. He keeps me amused, which is what I need now that Cho is not around._

 _And how_ _ **is**_ _the ever-faithful Cho? Do you still see him? I expect he's gone on to greater things in law enforcement. Cho is someone who will go far. I miss him._

 _Oh – I am also happy to inform you that I've found a place that makes good eggs, and their tea is getting better. Soon I'll have the proprietor making it just the way I like it._

 _And how are you doing Teresa? I hope you have found something wonderful to replace the CBI. You deserve all things good – and I'm sorry if I caused you any hurt or trouble (I know I did but I hope you know I never wanted to hurt you.)_

 _Well, I should go now. It is time for my evening walk. I like to watch the moon over the ocean, and there's also a little restaurant that makes the best food!_

 _Take care of yourself. I miss you._

 _U no hoo._

He sat back and stretched, but then he smiled. It felt good to write to her. He could imagine her curled up, drinking a glass of wine and reading his letters. It somehow made him feel closer to her.

That night he went to sleep with the letter under his pillow – and he dreamed. But this time he didn't dream of Angela or of Charlotte. This time he dreamt of Teresa.

His life continued, with little change or excitement. One month morphed into the next – the seasons changing slightly but his routine not changing at all. The only thing he really looked forward to were his letters to Teresa. It made him feel connected to her and made his life bearable. He knew, from Pete, that she was getting them. He just wished he knew if she was _reading_ them – and what she thought of them and of him.

He tried not to think of that too hard, though. Because he couldn't deal with her forgetting him or moving on, so he ignored those thoughts.

He woke up one morning and suddenly realized he had been on the island for almost 2 years. The thought made him feel incredibly sad and he wondered what, if anything, was next. He had enough money put away in offshore accounts to support him for the rest of his life – not in luxury, but he wouldn't starve. But he had nothing to look forward to, nothing to give his life meaning. For the first time since he had fled California and had arrived in this small paradise, he began to question whether or not he could remain here.

He could start some kind of small business, although there wasn't much need for anything that didn't already exist. He could begin a hobby although he wasn't sure what it would be – maybe he could build himself a house? That would be interesting.

He was thinking about that – sitting on the beach, eating his eggs, when he noticed a woman at the table next to him. She was attractive – and she was reading a book. At first all he thought about was that he desperately needed something new to read. Nothing had come in to the bookstore for a while now. His second thought was that the woman was very good looking.

As he looked at her - for the first time since that disastrous date with Kristina, so many years ago, he thought about whether he could move on and meet another woman.

He felt a swift pang but it soon died down. He also saw a picture of Lisbon in his mind, but cast that out. She was not here – could never be here – and he couldn't think of her.

But he continued to look at the attractive woman. He was inexplicably nervous, but it had been a long time since he'd spoken to anyone in English and an even longer time since he'd felt attracted to a woman. He took a deep breath …

"Hi."

The next morning, after Kim had left, he sat a long time and thought about her and the evening spent with her. He'd taken off his ring – it was the first step in seeing if he could move on. But looking down at his finger – it was bare, too bare. He slipped the ring back on and let out a long breath. It felt right there. Even though he'd said goodbye to Angela, he didn't think he was ready to move on. Kim was a lovely woman, and he'd enjoyed dancing and having dinner with her. But something – something more than the fact that she was leaving – kept him from wanting to go further with a relationship.

But seeing her, talking to her – and listening to her words– it had all gotten to him. The yearning to return home, to see his friends, to have a purpose in life began to grow. He couldn't bear the thought of turning into another Roger, spending his life sitting at a bar, staring out at nothing.

It wasn't long after that before he put in a call to Abbott. He was going home – not just to the United States – but home to Teresa Lisbon.


	6. Coming Home

_**Just a short one. Reviews are greatly appreciated.**_

Coming home had been – rather anti-climactic. He arrived in Austin and was immediately taken to the FBI building. He hadn't brought anything with him – instead he asked Franklin to pack everything up for him. He'd get him to send his things once he was settled.

Of course he hadn't quite expected Dennis Abbot to renege on his deal and so had ended up in a one-room detention cell. He just wished he had a few things with him – a pair of socks at least would have been nice.

There was no way he was going to give in to Abbott. He knew himself – and knew that he could outwait and outwit the FBI agent. He was the master of patience. He'd spent 10 years finding the serial killer who had killed his family. He knew how to wait to get what he wanted.

He smiled as he thought of the thing he'd _really_ wanted, and that was to once again work with Teresa Lisbon. She was the one thing in his life that made him happy and he'd do everything he could to get her to come to Austin.

Seeing her had been wonderful even if it had only been a brief visit. There had been a moment of discomfort, but finally hugging her had made him feel like his world had righted itself. Until that moment he hadn't realized quite how much he had missed her – or quite how essential she was to his life.

Of course he hadn't had nearly enough time with her before he was placed into detention. Somehow, having seen her once, he found it even harder not to have her near. Still – there was no way he was going to give in to Dennis' demands.

He rested – lying flat on the twin bed in his cell, his hands linked behind his head, his legs crossed. He wondered idly how long Dennis would be given by the powers that be to bring him around.

He yawned. He really didn't care. Instead his thoughts returned to Teresa. He idly wondered how she liked living in Washington. Somehow he didn't think it would be her cup of tea.

He was thrilled when she showed up again, this time to accompany him on a case. He only let _her_ see how happy he was to be out of that damned room. He'd been about to go crazy, although there was no way he would let anyone know that, least of all Dennis Abbott. Still, he wanted to throw out his arms and yell the moment he got outside and breathed the fresh air.

He had really been looking forward to being on a case again – especially with Teresa – but it ended up not being nearly as fun as he had hoped. They'd given Kim the job of being his babysitter, something that he resented, even if he didn't show it outwardly. He didn't know why they didn't ask Lisbon. At least she would have known how to keep him under some kind of control. Instead they'd given Ms Tight Ass FBI agent the job of watching him.

He wasn't quite sure what she was trying to prove by being so rigid with him. Teresa could have told her that it was _exactly_ the wrong tactic to use on him, but for some reason Lisbon didn't say anything, instead she just came along and watched things play out between him and Fischer.

Although he'd never admit it, he was still smarting from Kim's deception on the island. He _hated_ being tricked or made a fool of – forgetting completely that he often did it to others. But the fact was, for the first time in years he'd let his guard down with someone – someone other than Teresa Lisbon, that was. He'd decided to open himself up with Kim, to allow her to see a bit of the real Patrick Jane. He had wondered – even if for a brief moment - if there was the possibility of _something_ between them. He'd even gone so far as to remove his wedding ring – something he hadn't previously contemplated.

And she'd played him for a fool. Well, Ms Fischer deserved a bit of a lesson, he decided as he stood on the roof beside Defiance, the wife of the missing programmer. It didn't take him long to figure out how to ditch the FBI agent – unfortunately though he had to ditch Lisbon as well. He couldn't tell her his plan, although he wondered briefly if she'd be upset at him.

He gave a mental shrug. Lisbon knew him and understood him. She'd understand.

So, off he went – to show Kim she couldn't control him, and also to mail the letter to Abbott. He grinned. His plan was in play.

In the end he'd gotten what he'd wanted. Of course he had – he usually did. Abbott agreed to his terms and he now had a new life. In the process, however, he'd angered and hurt Lisbon – something he had never intended.

It was on that plane ride home – when she had spoken to him so harshly – that he suddenly realized something, something he didn't like at all. Lisbon was her own person, and even though she'd taken the opportunity to come to Austin and work for the FBI – she didn't see their relationship the same way he did. He had _counted_ on her – counted on her wanting to be with him, to work with him, to return to their old partnership. But instead of accepting him, of putting up with all his tricks, she'd told him plainly that she had her own life now. She had changed and it threw his entire world out of kilter.

For the first time in years - since the first time he'd met her, he felt unsure around Teresa. He didn't know quite how to act, how to behave, so instead he started to tread more carefully around her. He began to back away, to give her space and not to assume she would go along with him on everything. For the first time – he felt insecure around Teresa Lisbon. He hated it.

He spent many hours agonizing about what he should do. He didn't like this new state of affairs at all. More often than not he found himself working with Kim – he'd almost forgiven her and found that he was okay with working with her. But she wasn't Lisbon and he wanted things to return to the way they had been.

His life had changed – in so many ways. He no longer had a purpose in life and he felt aimless and unsure. His one rock, his one foundation for the past twelve years (even in her absence) had been Lisbon and she had pulled away from him.

He decided the best thing to do was to give her some space, to spend time getting to know his new teammates, to do what he had to do to make the FBI happy and to reestablish his life, now here in Austin. After that – in a few weeks or months – he'd try and build his relationship with Teresa back up to what it had been.

Yes, he thought, as he lay in his bed, that's the best thing to do. Just give her some space, go slow and eventually they'd get their footing back. He suddenly felt better; because if there was anything he was sure of in this world, it was that he and Teresa Lisbon were a team that was meant to be together. There was nothing that was going to break them up!


	7. Diverging Lines

He felt a moment's triumph when Kim agreed he could have a couch. There was no way he'd work without his comfortable spot – but even more than that he felt some sense of satisfaction in getting the better of the FBI woman. He wasn't above a little revenge.

Hell, he was all _for_ revenge as the last 12 years of his life had shown. Of course, now that he'd won his point (and his couch) he could afford to be magnanimous with Kim.

Abbott had told them about a new case – a particularly horrible one in which 5 DEA agents had been killed. Like always (or almost always) Jane was able to put the horror into a room in his mind and close the door. He'd learned how not to let tragedy get to him – at least tragedy not his own. If he hadn't he never would have survived his years with the CBI.

He felt his brain sharpen the moment he walked into the room where the agents had been killed. He couldn't say he had missed death and violence, but he had to admit that the last couple of years hadn't allowed him much in the way of mental stimulation. And he knew that it was necessary for him. It kept him from doing things that others – especially Teresa – wouldn't like.

When he saw the picture of the woman – Crystal – he'd instantly known that she was important. He didn't know quite _why_ but he felt compelled to check it out – check _her_ out.

He wasn't really interested in her, but as a red-blooded man he couldn't help but notice how attractive she was. She really wasn't his type – the image of a dark-haired woman popped into his mind – but it had been a long time since he'd dated and he felt the need to prove something, to himself and to – well, _others._

He was quite impressed with how smooth he was in asking her out. He was pretty sure Crystal didn't suspect a thing. He also decided to keep Kim and Cho and – yes, Teresa – in the dark as to his motives. Of course that wasn't different than the usual way he operated, but this time there was more to it than trying to solve the case and surprise everyone. This time his ego was on the line, his ego as a man.

He didn't want to admit it, but Teresa's words had hurt him. He felt like he didn't quite know how to react around her anymore. A part of him wanted to do something to lash out at her, to prove to her he didn't need her in his life, although he knew that wasn't quite true. Hell, it was as far from the truth as he could get. Still, he'd show her that he wasn't just some poor victim anymore. Nope, Patrick Jane was back in action.

He knew that he wasn't someone that Crystal would actually look at or be interested in. He wasn't that conceited to think that she'd go for a lowly FBI consultant. But she _was_ intrigued and so she agreed to go out with him.

He had surprised himself by telling her the truth about what had happened to him, to his family. It wasn't something he usually shared. Over the years those close to him already knew the story, and he didn't have any interest in sharing the story with anyone else. He didn't know if it was the case, and his way of making her trust him, or some need to be _real_ for a change – but he told her what had happened.

Of course afterward he felt rather – dirty. He didn't trust her. In fact he was pretty sure she was not only tough, she was bad, and he hated that he'd spoken about Angela and Charlotte to this woman. It would be the last time he would ever speak of them to a stranger – or probably to anyone. They were held in his heart - his two girls – and he didn't need to share them with anyone else.

He got a few minutes of pleasure when he realized that Lisbon wasn't particularly happy with him dating Crystal. He didn't think she was _jealous_ – not in that way because they were just friends. Really close friends, but – well, he just felt glad that she hated him dating.

He was quite pleased over the fact that he had figured the case out, although there was a brief moment of fear, hell of _terror_ when he thought he was going to be shot. Where was everyone? He'd counted on Teresa rescuing him!

As he dove into the frigid water he wondered if he'd miscalculated. Maybe it was true and Lisbon didn't care for him the way he did her. She'd told him she had her own life now – did he need to stop relying on her as he'd always done.

As he swam frantically away from the yacht he felt a coldness in his heart – a coldness that had nothing to do with the water around him. He felt as if something had been lost, something he hadn't really had but whose absence left him feeling suddenly bereft.

As he was helped out of the water by the emergency workers – and as a towel was placed around his shoulders, he felt himself begin to feel depressed. He'd so hoped that coming back from his exile, and working again with Teresa would start his life down a new path, a better one. He'd caught and killed the man who had killed his family and he'd survived. Now he wondered if it had been worth it.

When Cho, Kim and Teresa arrived he felt a bit better. They _had_ saved him after all. He wished they had been faster so that he wouldn't have had to go for a freezing swim, but in the end it worked out. And he _had_ figured out the case – as usual. He felt slightly smug, until it was clear that not only wasn't his team impressed, they were pissed at him.

He felt a moment of confusion. Things weren't going the way he'd planned. As they walked off and left him he realized, once again, that the Teresa he'd left two years ago was gone. In her place was a woman who appeared not to need him and to barely care for him.

He slowly stood up, shivering in the cold, and walked towards the car. He really didn't like the new state of affairs. For the first time in a while he felt a longing for the CBI days. He wished they could all go back and be the team they had been.

He sighed and wondered if he and Teresa would ever get their footing back. For the first time he was beginning to doubt it.


End file.
